


Ghost of the Past

by tklivory



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Romance, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:25:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tklivory/pseuds/tklivory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daylen Amell accepted the post of Chancellor for Alistair, but it is not quite the life he had in mind. When the wife of the ill-fated Grey Warden recruit Jory seeks him out, he is intrigued enough to give her a position at the Palace of Denerim. Can two lonely souls who both lost the ones they loved find solace in one another?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Chance Meeting

"Chancellor?"

Daylen looked up from the paperwork on his desk, gratefully allowing the word to pull him from his least favorite aspect of his job. "Yes?"

His assistant Falon looked at the disorganized mess on his desk and puffed some air through his cheeks, but refrained from comment. "There's a woman here to see you."

He sighed, waving at the piles of paperwork. "Tell her I'm busy and can't be-"

"She claims that you knew her husband, ser." He shrugged. "I was going to take over your desk while you talked to her, but if you truly wish me to-"

Immediately he stood, reaching out and grabbing the ink before it spilled. "No, no, no, we must listen to each and every one of Ferelden's citizens!" he said quickly, not wanting to lose this chance. "I suppose I could relinquish some of this ever-so-important paperwork regarding-" He picked up the topmost paper and grimaced, "-'payment for services rendered to the King in the Pearl.'" He sighed and dropped it to the desk. "With deep regret, I'm sure."

Falon carefully kept a smooth face as Daylen rounded the desk, still feeling awkward without his mage's robe. Months in the King's court could not simply erase years of habit. "Yes, ser, I'm sure you will miss all this lovely paperwork." He glanced down at the desk, then back up as Daylen moved closer to him. "Her name is Helena. She has a young child with her." Daylen nodded and started to push past him, eager to get away from his desk, when Falin laid a hand on his arm. "Brace yourself. She was hurt in the past."

Daylen looked at Falon and smiled. "Is that not true of us all?" Granted, his own scars were generally hidden by shirt and tunic, or robe had he worn one, but he'd learned in his time since leaving the Tower that everyone had been hurt in the past, regardless of whether it had been the Blight to hurt them or not. "Good luck."

He moved down the short hallway between his office and the outer office where Falon typically sat, taking a deep breath and exhaling to push the lingering distaste of the job away. When he'd agreed to stay on with Alistair, he hadn't thought the job would require so much... tedium. Granted, that letter from Weisshaupt that had arrived just last week promised a break in the routine, but he wasn't due to leave until  _next_ week. His hand straightened the two tails of his hair and smoothed down the rest as he wondered why anyone would seek him out. Though not a pariah - he  _was_  the Hero of Ferelden, after all - the over-six-foot tall man obviously plucked from the Chasind Wilds, complete with the prominent black tattoo across his face of his Tribe, was hardly considered an  _ideal guest_  among the elite of the social circles in Denerim.

Which was, honestly, just fine by him.

The mystery of his guest distracted him as he was about to enter the other office, and his toe caught on the frame of the door with a sharp  _crack._  He winced and kept on moving, adding a limp to his already slightly odd gait.  _Of course I didn't hit the clubfoot, I had to hit the actual_ toes _. Oh, what I wouldn't give to be... well, not me, I suppose. Though Morrigan didn't seem to mind..._

He pushed the thought away quickly. That wound was still too raw.

A woman was waiting for him, seated primly on a chair. She did indeed have a child on her lap, a young boy that wasn't even quite two years old yet, who was staring around at the office with an open-mouthed curiosity. As he limped towards her, he saw what Falon had meant by  _hurt_  - a long scar ran down the side of her face, puckering her eye and mouth. It was long healed, but it had definitely changed her looks - for the better, in his mind, but then he had rarely been attracted to the classical beauties.

Morrigan's beauty had, in fact, put him off until he began to learn more of her own scars within. Pushing away the thought of golden eyes and soft moans, he went to the chair and bowed a trifle stiffly. "Ma'am. I am Chancellor Amell."

She nodded at him, holding out a hand. "Helena." Nothing else, no start of surprise at his unusual appearance, no staring, no real... curiosity, really. It was distinctly odd, but then, he supposed she, like he, had grown out of the habit of reacting to other people's appearances because of their reactions to his appearance.

_No surname? Interesting._  He kept his bow in place as he took her hand, then released it as he straightened and sat gingerly behind the desk opposite her. "Falon said you wished to speak with me personally." Again, she nodded - a spare nod, a bare movement, and he noticed how it tugged at her scar.  _I wonder if it still pains her to move it. Surely any decent healer would have fixed that by now._ As her mouth opened, he focused on her words quickly.

"I understand you were at Ostagar," she said quietly.

He nodded. "Yes, though I was one of but three who survived." He glanced at the child, then to the woman's hand, which bore a wedding ring common to Highever - of two hands clasped - but upside down. He shifted in his chair. "My condolences, ma'am. Was he at Ostagar in the final battle?"

Again, that shallow inclination of the head. "He... he was a Grey Warden recruit."

_Helena._  And suddenly, Daylen was standing in the ruins of Ostagar, hearing Jory protest,  _"I have a wife and child."_

"Jory," he breathed.

"You remember him?" she asked, eyes pleading. "So he is... dead?"

_You've lived through these almost two years hoping he would return?_  he almost said, but stopped himself. "I do." He recalled Jory very clearly, particularly the moment when Duncan had ran him through, killing all of Daylen's hopes that the Wardens were more noble than any other men. "His last thoughts were of you, and the child."

Her eyes blinked rapidly as a sheen awoke in them, and she looked down at the boy in her lap, who had turned his attention to the broach on his mother's dress. "So he... he died in battle?"

Daylen hesitated. Normally he was not the type to spare someone's feelings - he'd been accused of a hawk's nose and death's gaze often enough, after all - but he simply saw no reason to tell her the truth of Jory's death. It had not been a glorious ending for a man who had hoped for glory among the Wardens, and he owed the man's memory more dignity than it had gotten from Duncan. "He died in service to the Wardens," he said instead. "I was proud to fight by his side as long as I did." He considered her for a moment, then leaned forward. "Do you need any assistance? I could arrange for a full Warden's widow stipend for you."

She looked up, a bit startled. "Oh, no, I don't..." She looked down at the child on her lap as he looked up with bright smile. Daylen's eyes narrowed as he realized that something was not quite right about the child. For one, he had never uttered a sound, and for two, his gaze seemed to be a bit empty. "Well... perhaps for the sake of Norrell, I should accept. I won't always be able to sew, after all." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Thank you. I... I would always have wondered."

He nodded, then remembered she could not see him. "I understand." He began rummaging through the desk to find what he needed. Quill and paper were much easier to find on Falon's neatly organized desk than it would have been on his, so he was quickly ready to take her information. "Do you still live in Highever?"

She looked at him, startled. "N-no, I live in Denerim. When Howe's men attacked Highever castle, some of the men... invaded the village around it as well. All the militia and men who could fight had been sent to Ostagar, so there was no one to protect us." Unconsciously, her hand went to her scar. "I was lucky to live, but I think... I think it... hurt Norrell, before he could even be born."

_Ah. The men assaulted her with the babe still in the womb, and hurt him._  And he remembered where he had seen that expression before, now: on Sandal's wide, happy, empty face.

She hugged the child close to her, oblivious to Daylen's conclusions. "I'm sorry, that is not an answer to your question. I moved to Redcliffe after the Blight, once I recovered. A young woman named Valena was kind enough to help me get some jobs at the Arl's Castle for a while, but when he moved here to help the King, they released most of us from service. Especially the ones who wouldn't... play by the rules." She glanced down. "I came here. I... I'm currently at the Pearl. I sew their clothes and... help when someone has a particular..."

"Fetish?" he murmured, a deep anger sparking within. She nodded. "A beautiful woman such as yourself should not be forced to serve a position that obviously is not your wish." He considered the matter as he wrote the request for the stipend in his long, flourishing hand. Falon may dislike his organizational skills, but he could not fault Daylen for his penmanship. "Perhaps a position at the Palace? I will be in need of several new outfits soon, and I am particular about cut and fit. I would be willing to offer you a position, if you would be willing to accept it."

Again her hands tightened around Norrell, and he said quickly, "I know that two of the senior chambermaids have younger sisters that watch their children while they tend to their duties. I'm sure an arrangement with them could also be made."

She looked up at him, and he saw not just the beauty as he had originally seen it, but also the beauty that Jory must have seen, in her smile. "Thank you, ser. I... I have no words."

He finished the note for the stipend with a flourish, then took another paper and began writing the hiring paper. "There should be a guard by the door. Tell him to fetch Page Bartel, who will help you move your things to the Palace." Elegantly signing his hand to the note, he sanded it quickly, blew it off, then handed it to her. "Give this to anyone who questions you. I will have a room ready for you when you return."

An hour later, she was ensconced in the Palace, figuring out how to make his new Chasind-style (with certain changes to suit Fereldan sensibilities) robes, and he was back wrestling with his papers, the matter of Jory's widow put from his mind while he wrestled with how to politely word an eviction notice for Bann Coerlic's rowdy offspring from the nicer areas in Denerim.


	2. Not All Fire Burns

He glared at his desk. The paperwork had built up to an insane amount once more, and he really didn't want to deal with it. When a knock sounded on the door, he snapped, "What is it?"

Varel walked in, chuckling. "I'm sorry to interrupt you in your favorite activity, ser, but you told me to tell you when Helena arrived with your new robes."

"Thank the Moon! I was beginning to think I wouldn't have any comfortable clothes for weeks!" He quickly stood, catching himself as he overbalanced on his clubfoot. "I swear, it's like they targeted my wardrobe when they attacked the Keep. I don't know how you can stand to wear these... things." He tugged at the trousers on his leg with distaste.

"I'm sure it will remain a mystery. Perhaps I could assist you with the paperwork while you get out of those horrid trousers?"

Daylen looked at Varel's bland face with narrowed eyes, then grunted. Sometimes he still didn't get these Fereldan jokes, though he still teased Alistair about the damn lamppost. "Why don't you do that?"

When he got to his quarters and entered the second bedroom, he was hit at the knees with a solid  _thud_. With a laugh, he reached down and picked up the madly grinning Norrell. "Well, I see your mother decided to bring you after all." He played with the boy's nose a bit, pretending to take it while the child laughed silently, taking no small pride in how the boy had blossomed after he'd figured out it that the lad's head wasn't quite as soft as Helena feared. He would never have a voice, but he was already beginning to learn his letters, and was much more expressive now that people talked to him, which they simply hadn't before. "Now, did you see the present I had shipped here from Rivain for you?" he asked.

Eyes wide, Norrell shook his head and immediately squirmed to be let down. He bounced up and down excitedly on the floor once his feet hit the ground, and Daylen laughed and pointed to the third bedroom, never occupied save for when every bed in the Keep had been used after Amaranthine had fallen. "In there." The boy dashed off, and he knew the lad would be well occupied with the toy horse for a while.

"You spoil him so," a soft voice said from behind him.

He turned to Helena, bowing slightly. "I barely remember my father, but what I do remember consists of fond memories. Since you refuse to accept my advice-"

She waved her free hand dismissively as she heaved a pile of cloth onto a nearby table. "I'm sure Kylon is a very nice man, but... I'm not interested." She smoothed her hands over the top robe, then pulled it off. "Now, strip to the smalls. We'll have to be careful, this one still has some pins in it."

He removed his clothes without much thought. She was, by now, his personal tailor, as well as the one who maintained his quarters in Denerim during his now extensive absences. They'd moved past the awkwardness of her learning of his clubfoot and curved spine, of his scars and his gaze of red and black. She'd learned that when he called her beautiful, he meant it, and he'd also made sure she understood it was nothing more than an observation. They'd settled into a companionable, yet still professional relationship that suited him quite well.

He stood patiently as she settled the robe over his frame, closing his eyes and working his way through some of the more challenging aspects of rebuilding Amaranthine following the devastation of the darkspawn attack. Her hands moved over him, making minute changes to the change of the robe in silence, asking for a change of posture through touch and pressure alone. They worked through several robes in this manner, each differing more in material than in cut. When they reached the final robe, he opened his eyes in surprise as it settled over him and the unfamiliar sensation of air touched his chest.

Glancing down, he saw that she had put in a closed collar, but left the upper chest bare, exposing the starburst scar he'd received from the Archdemon. He ran a finger over the scar and said, "An interesting choice."

She looked up from where she was working on the hem, a few pins in her mouth. "I found some Chasind robe references in a book. I thought you might like to try one, since you've told me you were plucked from the Wilds and the Tribes."

"Heh, yes, 'saved' from the terror of barbarity." He shook his head. "And put into a place that killed youth or took their ability to love away.  _Very_  civilized."

Her hands stilled, and she looked up at him, concerned. "Did I do something wrong, ser?"

"Daylen," he reminded her, a bit surprised she'd called him  _ser_. "And no, you did not. I was just a bit taken aback, that's all." He kept his eyes open this time, watching her at work. It had been a while since he'd done so, and he was once again impressed by her meticulous attention to detail. When she reached his chest and torso, he kept watching her, especially as her fingers worked in and out around the opening at his chest. At first, he assumed she was just working with a new design, but... he could not deny that as her fingers brushed over his chest and nipples that it was causing sensations he hadn't let himself feel since the Blight. "Ah, Helena?" he ventured. She paused, fingers hooked around the cloth. One of her fingernails was just barely grazing one of his nipples, and every breath he took called up those shivers. "I- I think we should leave this one for later."

For a moment, she didn't move. Then she looked up and met his eyes, cornflower blue eyes under blond hair that reminded him of corn silk. "I- Must we?"

His breath caught, and he couldn't get another word out. One of her hands moved up his chest and wrapped around one of his tails of hair, gripping it tightly, and the other remained at his chest, lightly scraping over his nipples and tugging at the spare wisps of dark hair. When her hand pulled his tail, he let her to bring his face down, allowing their lips to meet.

The kiss was hesitant at first, more a placement of lips on lips than any passion. It blossomed slowly, from mere touching, to pressure, and from pressure to the first parting of lips to invite a more serious exploration of each other. It was as far from Morrigan's possessive claims as he could conceive, far more gentle and giving, but nevertheless... he craved it.

He let her break the kiss, as he had let her begin it, and looked down at her sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. He waited for that to fade, for some sign that it was not what she thought it would be, but she only pulled her lower lip between her lips, then bent her head and began to lightly press her lips to his chest, causing him to rock his head back slightly and grunt. A movement in the corner of his eye alerted him, and he reached up to nudge Helena's shoulder. "We are not alone," he reminded her.

She turned and looked at the wide-eyed boy in the doorway of the room where he'd been playing with his new toy, and laughed nervously. "Ah... maybe we can finish the fitting later? He's about due for his bath." She looked up at him. "I could return after that."

He knew that she would be able to feel his heart pounding under her fingers as he looked down at her.  _Did_ he want her to- Instantly he knew that was the wrong question. The kiss had very definitely let him know that he  _wanted_  her to return.  _Should_  she return?

He wrestled with the concept for a moment, then nodded silently.

The remainder of the evening did not pass in peace for him. After she left and he settled himself into the robe that she had completed for his immediate use, he began to pace in the room. He knew himself well, and he had vowed that after Morrigan, he would never inflict himself upon another, no matter how drawn he might be to them. Of course, after the Blight, no woman had ever drawn him, not even Helena.

So what had changed? Was it as simple as her expression of desire for him, or did it go deeper than even he realized?

When the shy knock sounded on the door, however, those doubts fled, and he welcomed her in with open arms, the night fading into a warmth they had both forgotten existed.


	3. Time to Say Goodbye

He set the piece of paper on the desk, then blinked when he realized it was the last one.  _Surely it can't be. I_ never _finish my work early._  Quickly he pawed through the disparate piles of paper on the desk, and finally was forced to conclude that it was, in fact, all complete. With a grunt, he sat back in his chair, wincing as an edge caught his curved spine at  _just_  that angle to cause a bit of pain.

He heard a knock at the door and looked up, smiling when he saw the grinning face of young Norrell. "Oh, is it that time already?" The boy nodded, signing to him that he should hurry. "I'm coming, I'm coming. I'm not as spry as I used to be."

Norrell beamed at him, then turned and ran away with all the energy an eight-year-old could muster. With a sigh, Daylen edged around the desk and moved from the Chancellor's Office, shutting the door carefully behind him. It was rather quiet with Alistair away in Kirkwall, though the King had firmly but kindly told Daylen to stay put in Denerim out of deference to his physical ailments. Teagan would at least make sure the King didn't spend too much time in the taverns once they arrived.

_Now, Daylen, be honest, you know they're not there to drink wine and eat cheese. That's just what the King will_ want _to do._  He sighed as he paused in the hallway to rest his clubfoot, mind shifting like lightning.  _Pity Wynne could not help me while she was here._  Still, tonight was Helena's birthday, and he'd promised her to get his work done early so they could all have dinner together.

He headed to his bedroom first, to change into something more festive and to fetch the jewelry he'd had made for her, a necklace and earring set of cornflower blue sapphires and light blue topaz. It had taken most of his ready cash, but she never bought pretty things for herself, and he so rarely thought to do so for her. It had been Falon, bless his assistant's little heart, and his gentle reminders that had gotten him to the jeweler in the first place. With a faint smile on his face, he quickly shrugged out of his robe and into one she'd made 'special' for him, one of a more Chasind cut that showed his starburst scar, and moved to his desk to retrieve the small velvet box of delicate silver and blue.

"You look far older than you should."

_That voice..._  He pivoted sharply, ignoring the sharp pain that ran from his clubfoot up to his pelvis, and locked his eyes with the golden gaze of the woman behind him. Silence hung between them for a few moments, and he finally said, "I feel far older than I should, this is true, in body and spirit." His eyes moved over her, an echo of that old fire awakening within, but it felt... wrong.  _Forced._  As if the feeling didn't come from within at all. He sighed and slammed the drawer of his desk with some force. "Stop it, Morrigan. You can't manipulate me anymore."

"Oh? And who said I did before?" He smiled tightly, noticing she said nothing about her little attempt at this moment. "You still have my ring in that desk of yours, Daylen, else I would not have been able to locate you so easily." Her face softened, and she moved towards him. "Your son grows strong. I... I miss you."

"It's been six years, Morrigan." He looked at her, wondering at how little she had changed, physically. Her clothes were far more sophisticated than before, and her hair was arranged in a rather elaborate hairstyle that flowed down her back, yet her face and form were still as ageless and beautiful as when they had last met. Wherever she had spent the interim time, it had been in a place of luxury. He was tempted to call the fashion Orlesian, modified to her taste, and that worried him. Still, he pushed the concern aside. "Six years since you walked through that mirror after giving me an impossible choice."

"A choice between duty to that fool and your son? Between love and paperwork?" A slight bitterness edged her tone, and he knew that she wouldn't forgive him for rejecting her, not when she'd been so sure she could call him to her. "And for what? A woman with a son that can't speak and with a face that-"

His hand slammed down on the desk. "You will not finish that sentence." The tone was deadly and final, a voice he had only used with her once before, when they stood before the Portal. "You are not here to cajole my love, Morrigan. I made my choice six years ago."  _Six years ago, when I knew I had to see you before I could dedicate myself to a new life, a new love. Six years ago, and two years after our last farewell as lovers._  "The boy with no voice is far more my son than the one bearing the spark of the Old God. I may have planted the seed, Morrigan, but I am a mage as well, and I have not been idle. Your child is no more my son than Flemeth is your mother."

She visibly flinched at that, but quickly recovered her aplomb. "Regardless, I sought you out for a purpose. I told you before that the change was coming." Her face grew solemn as she drew herself up. "It has almost arrived. Orlais stirs like a great beast, Kirkwall is seething under its dictator; even Antiva and its Crows struggle under their own internal pressures." Her eyes grew distant. "And worse is to come... Many will die, and even after that the end is not certain."

"You mean you might not get what you want out of it, so you need the Hero of Ferelden at your side to ensure your success?"

"And why not?" she demanded. "Love cannot be trusted. Only power is certain. In this I have not changed my mind." Her eyes narrowed. "There was a time you agreed with me on this."

He looked down at the velvet box, then shifted his focus to the hand that held it. He could feel the weakness there, the slowly developing darkness, spurred on and accelerated by the taint, but not caused by it. "There was a time, yes. This is no longer that time." He looked up at her. "I have to tell the woman I love that I will be dead within the year. What can power give me to help with that?"

"I-" She stared at him, mouth open in shock. "Why?"

"My body has never been as strong as my will. You know that. In the past few months, i have felt a weakness growing, a fragility that that is coming from deep within, and it is spreading. Yesterday, Wynne told me what I had long suspected: my bones are ill, and poison my body. The taint will not let it be healed, and eventually - sooner rather than later - it will be my end. When Alistair returns, I will tell him, but she deserves to know sooner than that." He took a deep breath, then let it go. "I have arranged for her financial security, and for the boy's, and they will want for nothing - except someone to be in their lives." He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So, no. I cannot help you with this change. And I will not spend a single moment of my time left away from my family."

She regarded him silently for a moment, then shrugged. "Very well, if that is what you wish. I will leave you to your small world and narrow vision."

"Better narrow vision than blindness," he shot back.

"You-" She managed to bite back an angry retort. "I will take my leave of you. It is obvious I am not welcome here." She moved to the window, open to the balmy spring night air, then paused and looked back at him. "I do not regret what happened," she said quietly.

"Oh? Pity. To live without regret is to not have lived at all."

She stared into his dark eyes for a long, silent moment, then looked away. "Stubborn as always," she said, but he heard the hitch in her voice. "I suppose that will serve you well in the year to come." Her head turned so that he could see her profile. "Farewell, Daylen."

"Fare you well, Morrigan." He watched her smoothly shift into the form of a raven and leap into the air, disappearing swiftly from sight. A single black feather drifted down onto the seat below the window.

Carefully, he retrieved the soft pinion and took it to his desk. Opening the small drawer in the middle, he placed it gently next to a box that held only a small, silver ring, then shut the drawer once more. Perhaps he would always love her, but she was not the only one he loved.

He turned to the door and tightened his hand around the velvet box, the gesture making his hand ache deep within. It was time, and he was not looking forward to it. Yet, as he limped from the room and down the corridor to the quarters that Helena and Norrell claimed, he knew he would not take back a single moment of it.

A year later, when Helena laid a final kiss on his cheek and whispered her farewells, he had not changed his mind. He went to the Fade willingly, knowing peace at last.


End file.
